


Sometimes, Maybe, Might

by FacinorousFaith



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Cheating, F/F, I promise, about what you expect, there's plot eventually just hold on - Freeform, there's porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FacinorousFaith/pseuds/FacinorousFaith
Summary: Villanelle is bored. Eve is tired. Pretending is easy until it's not.Alternatively, the cheating AU this entire franchise is based on.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	1. Over

**Author's Note:**

> a horny-playlist induced writing. mostly self-indulgent ft. azahuhh as the resident horny beta reader (haha beta)

Her blouse is tight, far too tight to be a medium, and clasps uncomfortably around her neck. It’s checkered, a cherry and ink board, coffee ruffles flowing down an awkward collar. She forces on a matching set – her blazer and trousers both garnet, her belt a flashier shade of red – and winces at the tightness around her waist. It feels tense, dull, and she thinks she might suffocate. She makes it a point to wear it anyway, knows it’ll be hung later to dust and age, and glances at the clock. 10:25, and she’s already late for two of her meetings. She can reschedule, trusts her influence well enough to let her push it back a few days ( _maybe until she next feels like it_ ), and drives off to her office.

“Wine, or cherry?”

Her assistant, Suzanne, greets her with a wave. Her outfit is amusingly mismatched, a pearl crepe shirt with wide-leg trousers, and Villanelle wonders how she managed to hire someone so impressively inarticulate in their own line of work. She holds two sheath dresses, both far too awfully knitted to flatter _anyone_ ’s figure, and looks at her anxiously. Villanelle scoffs, sees her shrink at the sound. She saunters past her, gaze burning ahead, and drops her blazer for Suzanne to hang on the coatrack. Her pants grate as she fumbles, heels awkwardly clicking. Villanelle doesn’t help her to it. The sound of shoddy fabric disrupts the silence, and she makes a half-minded gesture to get it done with. Suzanne knows better than to push.

“Alec called an hour ago asking about his proposal – you know, the Russian one? Anyway, I told him you’ll talk to him another time. He was a bit put off and _maybe_ a little too angry, but I totally defused the situation, so just call him whenever. Oh, and I got you the latte you wanted. I left it on the desk, I got it a few moments ago so it wouldn’t get too cold. Als-”

Her blouse pricks at her chest, and she’s far too aggravated to pretend she isn’t being buttered up for a raise. Villanelle cuts her off with a glare, her silence enough a threat to send her scampering out. She sighs, breath low and rough, and reaches for her phone to check for messages. Nothing. Well, not exactly nothing; a few messages from colleagues read something about lunch at five and a party at ten ( _who in their right mind starts a party at ten?_ ), but she has too many proposals to read, and hates all her colleagues anyway. Her skin feels taut, stiff, legs heavy with anticipation for something she’s not quite sure she knows. She grates her teeth, pushes her chair with focus not entirely her own.

See, Villanelle is _very_ much aware of the way people look at her. She knows, quite confidently, how callous the media paints her ( _or perhaps how she paints herself?_ ), how she would enter parties and have every eye on her, whether out of envy or spite she couldn’t tell, how they would pull their lips too uncomfortably and tell her how _delighted_ they are that she’d decided to arrive, albeit a _few_ hours late, how they would share kisses and hugs with too tense of muscles, too quick of pecks, or just how _unfortunate_ of a coincidence it is that the baby shower everyone’s been invited to is just _too packed_ to handle one more guest. She knows this, has seen how brightly hate lights up dusky eyes, how intensely those flames growl with every word she spits, every drip of venom, and yet, she doesn’t stop herself from it, doesn’t soothe the cinder that burns her throat. Instead, she _revels_ in it, revels in every hushed whisper and faked smile, every missing invite and lost letter – she revels in just how _fun_ it is to crawl under people’s skin, beckon that ugly fiend of spite and loosen its chains, bit by bit, until it slithers through every thought, every feeling and plagues them so wholly, so entirely drunk with the ballad of Erida. It is so _fun_ , she’s learnt, to be the unloved child of fame, to be so openly despised and yet so successful, to be so intoxicated with the _power_ it gives her. After all, the world becomes so unbearably _boring_ when you have everything you want.

Well, everything, except for Eve.

* * *

It’s 2 AM, and her migraine is _officially_ impossible to power through.

It’s been hours since she’d last continued her article, and she’s fairly certain it’ll be more until she’s anywhere close to feeling inspired to write. She can pop another painkiller, plough through the fifth one that day and pray her stomach overlooks the upset for her sake, but due date is in a few days, and her 200 words stare at her indignantly.

Maybe writing gossip columns for people who unironically consider Heidi Klum their personal Jesus _isn’t_ her calling.

She gets off her chair for the first time in close to 9 hours, her back and hips cracking in gratitude, and pads over to the kitchen.

“Late night snack?”

Niko stands at the counter expectantly, his arms crossed at his chest. He’s wearing stained pajamas that come with the _charming_ stench of sweat, and his hair looks too mossed to have been washed in what Eve can assume is a solid five days. She walks past him to the fridge, notices his head bending forward for a kiss. Her skull feels small, crushed, and she focuses on trying to find her food from yesterday. He pulls back, coughs.

“Looking for something in particular?” He pats his thighs, limbs awkward and heavy. Impatience hangs densely, undesirably.

“Have you seen my leftovers?” She moves aside a pack of cheese and – Huh. So that’s where the candy bar went. When he speaks, his voice teeters on defensive.

“You mean the Thai food that was in the fridge?” Eve rolls her eyes, feels them ache with dryness.

“No, I mean _my_ Thai from yesterday.” She pulls back from the fridge, and her skull pounds so hard she feels she might faint. He stares at her, eyes betraying him long before he speaks.

“I’m sorry. I can make you something else? Eggs or, maybe we can order something?” He speaks slowly, voice too gruff to be confident. She wants to pretend not to care about it, but her stomach growls and she’s too exhausted for pretense.

“I’m hungry for food, not eggs.” She speaks curtly, sees him flinch at her tone. His jaw flexes, once, twice, his eyes darting between hers. He’s irritated, she can see it in the way his chest puffs and his hands ball at his hips. She would’ve found it ridiculous, once, would’ve brushed it off with a wave and a chuckle, told him they were just leftovers anyway and that this gives them reason to cook together, but now she just thinks it’s infuriating. Draining. Now, she’s just tired. The air grows thicker, suffocating, dizzies them with unease and hostility. She nods, ignores his apology, and walks back to her room.

It’s tiring, she knows, to try and work a marriage in the shadows of ambitious dreams. She’s dated enough to know the weight of expectations, to memorize the steps to every conversational dance, the purrs to every lustful song. She’s felt it burden her spirit, crush and bash her every passion, every thrill, let it tame her into a husk of what she once was – a calmer, more cautious mimic. But it’s even more tiring, she’s learnt, to pretend to be indifferent to it all, to smile and kiss with too empty hearts, too cold lips, to turn her cheek and open her heart and for what? It’s not love, she knows, which keeps them together, not love which makes her swallow her words and bite her tongue – they’ve long since lost that, long since built newer, tougher walls. So she’s considered leaving, once, when she found him lying on the couch in the living room, too drunk to notice the marks on her shoulder. She knew it to be familiarity which holds them together, knew it to be the safety of family which kept her from sneaking off into the night. And she questioned, then, why she hadn’t felt her stomach drop at the thought of abandoning him, wondered how long she’d have to wait before the grief and guilt would freeze her in her tracks, make her realize he meant more to her than she allowed him to.

But it never came. She didn’t expect it to.

She grabbed her phone, then, typing in an unsaved number too intentionally to be unfamiliar.

_“You free tonight?”_

The answer comes almost instantly.

_“My place in an hour x”_


	2. Tick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the world's a stage, or something

The night is dim, bleak; it’s pouring, and the windows tint with a sheet of fog, motel lights made dull in the mist. The moon glows fiery white, pierces through broken blinds and ragged curtains. Its glare is sharp, jarring, cuts grey lines on heavy lids. An arched back, a curved neck, and it draws the image of indulgence, light stretching down, down, down; down to where thighs tremble on creamy shoulders. Eve’s moans are low, quiet, her breaths grow quicker with every tug and lick. Villanelle settles between her legs, fills the room with wet pops and heavy sighs. Eve pushes her deeper, rougher, drowns her in her taste until she comes up for air.

Her face is red, flushed, burns with every stroke of touch. She stares darkly, fiendish, begs from under hooded eyes and parted lips. Villanelle pushes herself up, grabs Eve’s thighs and grazes them with her lips. Specks of brown line above her hipbone, stretch from her belly to the nook of her legs. They’re ticklish, she’s found, urge clumsy squirms and gawky laughs. She traces them with her thumb, brushes up and down her thigh. Her skin is soft. Delicate. _Frail_.

She wonders how it would look with scars.

Nails drag over sensitive skin, possessive, stir red lines and eager moans. She presses open-mouthed kisses against her thighs, rubs her slow, teasing, builds enough tension to smother them both. Eve groans and whimpers, fists balled and white-knuckling the sheets. A hand moves to Villanelle’s hair and tugs, wraps her legs around her head and squeezes. She begs, hot and heavy, dizzies her with control.

Eve’s hips buckle, raised ever so slightly, and Villanelle kisses her, catches moans with tongue and teeth. She touches her and it’s fast, rough, all bite and sharp at the edges. Thighs fold around long fingers and tense, burn with keenness and pleasure. She’s so close, she sighs, so close and so wired that her whole body feels electric; her lips swell red and her breath sticks to her lungs and Villanelle can _feel_ it, can _hear_ how eagerly her pleas drip with need and her mind cages with desire. She pushes, demands her to hold back and she obeys, movements erratic in the throb of pleasure. She smiles, teeth glinting like fangs, eyes roaming with enough intensity to swallow her whole.

Eve’s phone rings. They both freeze.

The screen lights up. Niko’s contact picture glares. They pause, wait to see who falters first. Eve’s eyes are murky, foggy, storm with fear and worry. It’s an hour until Niko’s flight lands, three until he’s home. He could’ve lied, tried to surprise her with an early flight, think it a gift than an inconvenience.

A snarl, and Villanelle sits up, lips pursed and eyes searching. Her jaw clenches once, twice; fingers linger over skin and dig, pressure enough to sting. A flaw. A mark. A _warning_. Eve shifts, reaches for her phone and answers. Her tone is calculated, methodic, the lead of a record worn and beaten. He asks her about her day and his voice is warm, lively, love slithers through the phone and round her neck. She counters, says her day was tedious and monotone, that her world is bleak without him. One of them is better at lying, and Eve’s not been big on sincerity. Her hand moves to Villanelle’s wrist, ghosts her fingers along her skin light enough that she doubts she’s doing it at all.

How many times, she wonders, have they done this? How many times have they feigned ignorance, have they shared knowing looks and impish eyes, crept around cameras and headlines just to watch their shadows blacken and stain? How long will it be until they can no longer fool the press, until chances become choices and accidents are too common to brush with power and wealth? How many times, she wonders, have they cut the string of fate and wound it, twirled it round and round themselves until it stretched them bare on a rack, throats so tightly chained to a figment that it becomes their reality, that the bounds between trickery and sincerity smear and all she can think of is how long it’ll take for them to _slip_ , how much longer they can dance between the lines before one of them trips and pulls them under, suffocates them both under the weight of their own narratives?

The clock ticks. Eve stares at her softly, raw enough to pull her out of her thoughts and ground her. Her phone lies back on the bedside, her thumb rubbing circles across her wrist. Eve props herself up the bed, mumbles something about drives and schedules and Villanelle takes it as her cue to get off, intents to pick up her clothes from across the room and leave somewhere private. Eve’s voice is hushed, sincere; when she speaks, her words are gentle, crooning, the tone that love nestles into.

“Text me when you’re home safe?”

There’s concern in her voice, somewhere, and Villanelle turns to look at her. Her hair is all sorts of frizzy – her locks curl out like little antennas, proud and splayed out on the pillow. Her eyes are still hooded, now, but in a softer, more comfortable way. Where there seared blood and hunger and possession now bared warmth and passion, a softness that crinkles along the sides of her eyes. She stretches her arms and lies there, content, hums like this had been the most natural thing in the world, like she didn’t have a lover to rush back to and a world to act for. The bed creaks and she stares at her, bares her heart in the curve of a smile. There’s enough emotion in Eve’s eyes that Villanelle’s heart skips – of fear or something else she doesn’t know – threatens to betray the feelings they choose to ignore. This, she knows, is swimming in the eye of a storm, watching lightning strike the surface and wondering how long until the water rises to choke you. This, she knows, is reaching for a blade, is taunting the lines and scratching wounds rife.

 _You’re mine_ , she wants to say.

_Please, be mine._

The door shuts with a click, her heart thumps to the beat of the clock. _Tick_. _Tock_.

* * *

Eight missed calls, fifteen texts and Eve is _still_ not home.

It’s not that he expects her to be; they’ve danced around the subject often enough for him to understand not to push it, to respect her boundaries and acknowledge that sometimes, Eve just needs to be alone ( _she’s not alone, no one goes to a motel alone_ ), that her publishing office is crunch central and that the stress of work is overpowering, laborious enough without the need of a nagging partner. Three times she’s disappeared to write ( _Three times she’s come back with the same 200 words_ ); he knows this because she always tells him how she’s too worn to spend the night together, that it was a fit of genius that pushed her to reclusion, too focused on her work to reply to his anxious texts. It’s not that he’s the dependent type – quite the contrary, he, too, likes to go into his own isolated bubble, fall off the face of the Earth the way Eve always does and just focus on himself ( _can’t stop checking your volume, can you?_ ), but it never lasts long enough, unease carves itself too comfortable in his mind.

The phone lights up and his heart stops – stupidly, _stupidly_ set on false hope –he unlocks it, checks his messages for any sign of her, anything to let him know that she’s safe, that she thinks of him – except his messages are still empty, an ad for a couple’s night out beams across his screen. Ironic. He opens up his contacts, swipes to where she’s on speed dial.

_Ring._

_Where did you go?_

_Ring._

_What did I do?_

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

_I don’t want to lose you._

_I’ve already lost you._

He stares at the clock. It’s five past midnight – he could stay up, work on finishing up some paperwork, but his throat burns, and his chest feels unfamiliarly empty. He pads over to their bed and shuts his eyes, puts his phone on the bedside dresser.

It’s become routine, you see, for them to play pretend. Niko would sit at home and go over the news three, maybe four times, until he hears her stumble at the front door, open it with too shaky of a hand, too slurred of a voice. He knows that it would be impolite of him not to greet her eagerly, to acknowledge that maybe, just _maybe_ , her cheeks burn too hot for dreary conferences, glare red with every missed detail, every awful lie. It would be discouraging, he thinks, not to compliment how violently her lips flare up, how her perfume smells _far_ beyond his paycheck and the apathy in her eyes feels more than just the influence of work. And so he’s learnt to take the easy way out, to act unaware to it all and lie under the weight of a breath held too long, an eye left too open. The alternative, then, would be to confess that their dynamic has changed, that they are not lovers drawn apart by time but by disinterest, that her body feels touched, altered, drawn and reshaped into a figure his arms don’t quite recognize. The alternative, then, would be to admit his fear, to admit that she may have outgrown him, that his vulnerability is now weakness and that he’s made his own mistakes in this, too, to think that perhaps he had been too much and too little, too loving and too callous. To admit this would be to lose his wife, his home, _himself_ , to break down his character and build it anew, as though it were something he could handle, something he could do.

The door clicks. Eve creeps in slowly, awkwardly, cautious not to make too much noise. She slides under the sheets behind him, smells of motel rooms and getaways, and holds him, wraps her arms round and rests her hand on his head.

“Work was tiring today?”

“You’ve no idea.”

Time’s up.


End file.
